


history forgets the moderates

by spock



Category: Another Country (1984)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Getting Back Together, Identity Reveal, M/M, Reunions, Revelations, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-24 21:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20021479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: Guy hasn't the faintest idea what to do with himself. He steps closer to James, raising his umbrella so that they're both sheltered from the rain overhead. "Oh, well," he says, "if it isn'tpolite."





	history forgets the moderates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [education](https://archiveofourown.org/users/education/gifts).



His isn't the sort of neighbourhood where visitors have an easy time loitering about. Guy notices the man sat on his doorstep the moment that he turns onto his street. Save for the visitor, the square is deserted; the sky'd cracked open just as afternoon tea had come to an end and hasn't seemed to be of any sort of mind to stop since. Guy's umbrella saved him from the worst of it as he's journeyed home, though his guest isn't so lucky. 

Even as well acquainted as he is with the incompetencies of the nation's government, Guy still can't imagine them sending such an ill-prepared assassin to put him out of their misery. The Americans, perhaps? It’d only been last week that his handler had come calling, warning Guy about _rumours_ that are in actuality anything but, but which Guy had acted appropriately scandalised and denied all the same. Even from half a street’s length away, Guy can tell that it isn’t Rupert returned to give him another talking too, the man sat there now much too slim to be one and the same.

"Hello," he calls, once he’s close enough to be heard above the downpour. "It's very brave of you not to wait under the awning."

The man's got his collar turned up, protecting most of his face from the wind that's whipping about. He glances up once Guy's spoken to him, revealing bright blue eyes and a lush mouth. 

"James." Guy doesn't say it so much as it's breathed, like the name has been living inside of him all this time, waiting to be released. 

James smiles at him. It's still beautifully, perfectly lopsided. His hair is a bit longer than is fashionable, though it suits him. The water has the length of it plastered to his forehead and Guy wants nothing more than to reach a hand out and caress it off his face, to expose James to his view so that he can catalogue all the things that've changed since Guy saw him last. 

"Hello," James says in return. "It didn't seem polite, to invite myself in that far."

Guy hasn't the faintest idea what to do with himself. "Oh." He steps closer to James, raising his umbrella so that they're both sheltered from the rain overhead. "Well, if it isn't polite." 

He watches as James stands up, showing no interest in stepping away, both stood within the dry haven. Guy’s tongue darts out to wet his lips as he tries to grasp for something, anything to say. "Would you like to come inside?" 

"If you wouldn't mind." 

_Only if you promise never to leave_ , Guy thinks, and it's a credit to the growing up he's done these past years that he doesn't say it aloud, although it's a near thing. 

It's an awkward few steps to the door, Guy not wanting to leave James to the rain again. His keys seem to be hiding from him in his coat pocket, his work cut out for him as he attempts to fish them out one-handed. James takes pity on him and grabs hold of the umbrella for them, sliding it closed in a fluid motion Guy could never hope to replicate once Guy's finally unlocked the bolt and gotten the door open. He follows Guy inside and stores it in the stand Guy keeps just inside the hallway. 

"I'll apologize now if that's actually some fancy art piece and I've just made a fool of myself," James says, shrugging off his jacket and closing the door. "And for dripping all over your floor, gosh."

"Oh dear." Guy kicks off his shoes and tosses his jacket onto the rack placed in the corner by the window, not minding when it misses and falls to the floor. "Give me just a moment." 

His long legs eat up the distance to the stairs, and then it's only a matter of hurrying down them into the basement. He's never given much thought to the location of the laundry room, but tonight Guy is positively beholden to that old bastard Belgrave, wherever his soul ended up, for such immense foresight. How the man could have ever known that one day a tenant might find himself in need of towels to dry off the soaked vision in his entryway, Guy does not know, yet the man had seemingly designed for such a probability anyway. 

Arms full, Guy turns to head back upstairs, only to run into his charge. 

James's arms come up around him, preventing what would have been a rather humiliating fall on Guy’s end. "I'm so sorry," he says, and his voice certainly sounds it. "I hadn't meant to sneak up on you like that."

"No, you're quite alright." Guy takes it upon himself to save the both of them from the infernal polite awkwardness in which their interactions so suddenly seem confined. He drapes the larger of the two towels he'd pulled from the linen closet over James's shoulders; James's hands come up automatically to hold the two ends at his throat, keeping it there. The other Guy uses to wipe at James's face, his hair, doing his utmost not to let his touches linger lest they veer into caresses that might not be welcome after all this time of theirs apart. 

Together they manage to stop the worst of the dripping, leaving James a damp and wrinkled mess, his hair standing at all directions. Despite it all, he's still the best thing Guy has seen in his life 

He watches as James bends over, using the towel he’d had draped across him to mop up the small puddle he'd made on the floor. "I really am sorry," he says again. "I must seem a bit of a mess."

"Is everything alright?" A million possibilities suddenly running through Guy's mind, explanations for why James might've come looking for him now. 

James's head snaps up, looking at him from where he's still crouched on the floor. He stands in a hurry, twisting and wringing the towel in his hands, sending droplets of water right back down to where he'd only just finished drying. "Oh, what you must think of me," he says, laughing to himself. "No, I just — I'd heard you’d moved here. Of course, the sky would pick tonight to open up, when I’d only just gotten the nerve to come calling."

They stare at one another in the dim, warm light of Guy's basement. He can see that James is shivering a bit, though it doesn't seem like the polite sort of thing one should point out. "I've been here just going on seven years now," he says instead. 

He'd thought that he'd imagined the flawlessness of James. That youthful infatuation and the passage of time had elevated his memory into something otherworldly, a saint that no mortal man could ever possibly live up to, least of all James himself. Yet looking at him now, the soft flush spread across his cheeks, the shy tilt of his mouth — it's entirely possible that Guy's memory might not have been doing the reality of James justice. 

"Quite a bit of nerve."

A laugh startles itself out of Guy's throat, genuine and unbidden. James looks rather pleased with himself to have caused the reaction. 

"Have you eaten?" Guy asks. He has to find a reason for James to stay, of that he is certain.

"Well," James says, scratching at his cheek. "Yes." 

They stare at one another some more before James asks, "You?" 

Guy nods. Their staring soldiers on, aimlessly moving towards something, though Guy can’t seem to discover what. "Would you care for something to drink?" he asks, trying again for any straw that might be so kind as to fall into his hand. 

"Not especially," James says. "It's only just —" He makes a frustrated noise and then both of his hands come up to palm Guy's face, cradling his head with his fingers. He leans in and they're kissing, soft and gentle and closed-mouthed. It has to be the most chaste kiss Guy's had since he was a boy, more so even than the few he and James shared during their time together at school — and despite all that, it's still the best he's had. 

"I've been wanting to do that since I saw you come 'round onto the street," James tells him. "I wouldn't've been able to do much else until I did. Sorry."

Guy leans in and kisses him again, licking at the seam of James's lips this time. "Don't apologize," he says, speaking into the minute space between their mouths. 

"Alright." James brushes their noses together a few times before kissing him again. "We can have those drinks now if you'd like." 

"Oh, sod the drinks." Guy pulls back and runs a hand through his hair before settling it on his hip. The other he's got twisted in James's shirt at his chest. With both of James's hands still cradling his face, Guy feels like a pouting boy, demanding to be indulged. The knowledge of the picture he must paint fails to stop him from acting as such, however. "What's say we get you out of those clothes before you catch your death and head to bed, hm?"

James releases him, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Guy is of half a mind to complain, but he manages to bite it back at the sound of James's soft laughter washing over him.

"Oh, yes," James says. "That's a much better idea." 

\---

It's just Guy's luck that he's set to leave town for work that morning. He stares forlornly from his pillow to the one James has claimed as his own, the man looking not unlike an angel crafted by the likes of Michelangelo himself, the steady inhalations of his breath quiet and measured as he sleeps. 

"I can feel you staring at me," James mumbles into his pillow, eyes closed. 

"Why couldn't you have shown up a week ago," Guy laments. "Or better yet, in about four days hence." He reaches out to brush James's hair from his face, something he hasn’t been able to keep himself from doing, not even throughout their various fumblings together the evening prior. 

James leans into Guy's touch, though he still doesn't bother to open his eyes. "Must you leave?" 

Guy sighs. "I must," he says. "It's a work assignment, otherwise I'd say the hell with it and take you with me." 

James's face morphs into the smile he's always been wont to give when he's thinking that Guy’s being ridiculous. As with all the times prior, Guy is, of course, being serious. He opens his mouth to say as much, but then James finally opens his eyes to look at him, and the air is stolen from Guy's lungs. 

"Good morning," James says. 

"It most certainly is." Guy rolls closer and kisses James a few times just to prove to himself that he can, that this isn't some fantasy dreamt up by his mind. 

The clock on his bedside table goes, alarm cutting through the soft sounds of their kissing in the early morning quiet. "No," he groans. "What on earth made me think booking the early train was a good idea?"

When he opens his eyes, he can see his misery reflected on James's face. “It must be nice though,” James offers, “A job that pays for you to travel? BBC seems like a good place to work, anyhow.”

“It’s full of nothing but dim boys with fathers who tell them what opinions they should hold, same as any other building in Westminster.” Guy sighs and strokes his fingers across James’s cheek. “The hours are dreadful but it does pay well, I suppose. Things are much more interesting now that the war’s done.” Guy reconsiders what he’s said. “Well, the main war, anyhow.”

James hums in response. "Four days, you said?"

"Three." Guy does the math in his head. "I'll catch the last one back, save myself a day." 

\---

The weather on the continent is considerably more pleasant than it'd been back in London. Guy strolls down cobbled side-streets with the sun warm at his back, idly glancing into the windows of storefronts as he passes them. All of his appointments are scheduled for either the morning or dinner, which leaves his afternoons a dreadful block to slog through. Were it any time in his life prior to now, he might go out and find himself a local boy or two to occupy his time. 

As it stands, he can think of little else than James. It's an easy enough obsession to fall back into, truth be told, James filling up the cavernous space Guy had opened for him in his mind and heart all those years ago, as if he'd never left to begin with. 

He's so caught up with thoughts of James that he nearly runs himself into a postcard display installed at the front of a little souvenir shop, only just managing to stop from making a spectacle. One of them catches his eye, a silly illustrated thing that he doesn’t think twice about grabbing. He takes it into the shop before he can talk himself out of buying it. 

He carries his purchase up the road to a cafe situated on the corner and commandeers himself a table so that he can write to James. It's a ritual he replicates the following day, as well as on his third, recording the mundane details of his trip, waxing on about how he's counting the hours until they'll be reunited. 

The job itself goes off without much fanfare, the information he came to gather safely collected and stored in his bag. It's always been easy for Guy to get people to talk to him, telling him their secrets. His minders on both sides of the aisle have always praised his ability to be loud and unassuming in equal turns, an ally whose worth never quite crosses the threshold of being a threat. 

It's quite possibly the worst misreading they could ever have of him, of course, but it suits his needs so perfectly that Guy will never be of a mind to dissuade them of such foolish notions.

In the end, it's Guy's cover story that ends up falling through, not that it matters; the diplomat he was originally meant to interview for the Beeb cancels on that third day, citing scheduling conflicts. 

It leaves Guy with just enough time to perhaps make an earlier train if he hurries, which of course he does, shoving his clothes into his traveling case without much care, his letters to James safely housed in his breast pocket, away from the rough treatment the intelligence he's gathered is currently being subjected to. 

When he gets back to London the sky's already gone dark, but only just. He spends an agonising few minutes at the station, dithering over his next course of action before deciding to stop back at his first instead of going straight to James’s. 

He drops his things beside the staircase the moment he's through the door, hurrying up the two flights of stairs that lead to his bedroom. Wetting a flannel, he kicks off his traveling kit and washes his face, under his arms, doing his best to refresh himself as much as he can without resorting to a proper bath. He'd gone directly from that cancelled meeting and into his hotel to pack. From there it had been a mad dash to the station; well aware that he’s a bit of a mess, Guy can’t quite bring himself to care. 

Once he feels mildly civilised again he walks back into the bedroom proper to hunt around his wardrobe for something to wear. James's flat is on the other side of the Thames, so he dresses in his most nondescript suit and hopes that it won't be too bad to walk halfway across the bloody city in. 

He makes it to whereabouts Clapham before he can't take it any longer and hires a car to carry him the rest of the way, leg bouncing up and down as he watches one neighbourhood bleed into the next, all of bringing him closer and closer to James. By the end of it can’t even be bothered to wait for the driver to count the change from his fare, waving the man off and crossing the street. 

All the lights on the ground floor are out, but there's one still lit in what must be James's bedroom. Guy's fingers ball up into fists at his side for a moment before he raises one to knock at the door. 

An eternity passes while he’s is stood on James's doorstep, his ears listening for any sound that might emanate from the insides of the house, a burst of ecstasy rushing through him when he sees a light flash on in the drawing room just beyond the window a moment before he hears the lock turn, and then the door’s opening. 

"You're back!" James's smile illuminates the entire street. 

Not a thing that Guy wishes to say nor do is appropriate for where they're stood, clearly in view for any of James's neighbours or random passerby to see. He licks his lips and asks, "Might I come in?"

James steps to the side and ushers Guy into the house. He’s only just closed the door when Guy takes him into his arms, embracing him tightly, one hand pressed flat to the center of James's back, the other cradling the back of his head, Guy’s fingers grabbing at his hair. 

Their breathing is laboured, ragged. "I can't begin to tell you how much I've missed you," Guy says, and then goes about trying to show him instead. He presses a kiss to James's neck, the sound of it loud in the hallway, James's breath hitching the moment it lands. 

James twists his body so that they're facing one another, his arms coming up to loop around Guy's shoulders. They kiss properly, frantic and deep, each one pressing into the next. Guy presses forward until James's back connects with a wall, the aggression of it causing a picture to fall to the floor, glass shattering. James never ceases in kissing him, one leg coming up until his thigh is pressed to Guy's hip, calf hooked around his back with his foot resting at Guy’s other side, ensuring that their groins are pressed tight as their bodies undulate in tandem. 

Eventually Guy finds himself in need of a greater degree of leverage. He blindly leads them along the hallway into what he hopes is a room containing a sofa; Guy just might actually die if they have to go up to James's bedroom, although the jury's out on if it'll be due to the wait or his breaking his neck by refusing to separate his mouth from James's long enough to manage the stairs.

He pulls back just enough to confirm that they are in the drawing room. His relief is such that he can't stop himself from saying, "There is a God." James's laugh rings out between them and directs Guy's attention back to the matter at hand.

They end up on the sofa but don't last there for long, the frantic edge to their coupling leaving them upended on the floor, which suits Guy perfectly fine. They separate only long enough to undo the infernal buttons of their shirts, kicking off their pants and underclothes with little care for where they land, Guy's momentarily tangled around the shoes he's only just remembered that he's still got on. James uses the time Guy needs to free himself to fish some cushions and the blanket he's got draped over the back of his sofa down onto the floor with them. 

He emits a rather triumphant grunt once he's fully naked, making James laugh yet again, which only serves to further stoke the pride Guy feels with himself, though there isn't much laughter after that point. 

James takes the lead this time, climbing on top of Guy and kissing him breathless, his cock a warm press sliding against Guy's stomach, Guys' own length finding a place for itself between James's thighs, the soft hair there an exquisite torture as it catches against the skin of his cock, the head teasing up into the crevice of James's arse when he shifts down to kiss at Guys' neck, his chest. 

They come like that, using the whole of their bodies to pleasure one another. Everything about James is so erotic to him that even kissing would likely be enough to get Guy off — it certainly had been the case back when they were at school; it would seem some things don't change that much, even with age.

"Was it a good trip?" James is laid across him, head pillowed on Guy's chest and limbs spread out every which way. Guy can only just barely breathe, but there isn't any place in the entire world that he'd rather be than here, trapped under James's weight. "Awful," he says. "The bloody fascist I was meant to speak with ended up canceling after we'd gone through all the trouble of setting everything up."

"How rude." James's fingers circle Guy's navel for a few oscillations before dragging lower to play with the hair at his groin. "What else could you expect from a fascist though, really?"

Guy laughs. “I had you there to keep me company, though,” he says, “so it wasn’t altogether awful all of the time.”

“How do you mean?” James asks, giving him a confused smile. 

“I wrote to you,” Guy explains. “Postcards, not letters, but my handwriting’s gotten much better since you last saw it, I can promise you that.”

James raises his head, frowning outright. “I didn’t get anything,” he says. “What did you say on them; you don’t think they got detained by the post, do you?” His expression changes from worried to considering. “Although, I suppose they mightn’t have had the time to sail off before you’d even turned around to come back.”

Guy strokes a hand through James’s hair, pushing his fringe back away from his face. “I hadn't said anything about sending them.” He extracts himself from James’s weight and exits out into the hallway, uncaring of his nakedness even with the chill of the house. He pulls the cards from his coat pocket and returns to James, settling himself on the sofa and passing them down to the man on the floor. 

James gets up onto his knees and follows him, settling himself into Guy’s side, eyes riveted on the postcards. Halfway through reading the first one his face breaks out into a grin, a picture of glee. “Guy,” he says, voice awash with wonder. “These are marvelous.” He turns to press a quick kiss to Guy’s cheek, only the briefest moments distraction before his attentions are back on prize yet again. 

\---

Guy puts in time off from work the next day, sending encrypted communiques to his handlers as well, citing vague personal business that needs seeing to. He leaves strict instructions that he shan't be bothered even if the bloody war does kick up again and global annihilation seems especially nigh.

The dramatics are more for their sake than his; he isn't so connected that they need unfettered access to Guy and his skillset. Still, him failing to act as such would arise suspicion, which is the last thing he needs. 

Guy kisses James awake, lips grazing every inch of his marvelous face. James smiles and leans into the treatment. "I'd a dream that we were in that boat," he says, blinking into the morning's light. "We were naked," he adds, a blush heating his cheeks. "But it wasn't cold at all." 

With a hum, Guy says, "I can't imagine how you'd get that idea in your head."

James shoves him and rolls onto his side. "I’m going back to bed."

Guy molds himself to James's back, pressing his nose into the short hairs at James's nape and nuzzling. "You can't,” he whines, lips catching against James's skin. "The car I've hired will be here in an hour."

James rolls back so that he's facing Guy, their noses pressed together awkwardly as a result of their sudden closeness. Guy has to cross his eyes a bit just to look at him from so small a distance. 

"What do you mean?" James asks, speaking into the small amount of space between their faces. "What've you done?"

Guy brings himself to shift away just a little, hand coming up to stroke through James's hair. "Rang the staff of the family's summer house to air it out for us, hired a car to get us there, called off work," he ticks each task off by tapping his finger again James’s chest, pausing to level James with a considering look. "Which you should also do, come to think of it. And, of course, you should probably pack something before the car gets here so that the poor man doesn’t have to wait."

"You're mad," James says, raising himself onto his elbow so that he's hovered over Guy. 

Guy considers it for a moment. "It's certainly not outside the realm of possibility," he allows, rolling onto his back and grinning up at James. "Doesn't change the fact that the car's coming and you still need to call your boss, though."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was mistaken," James sits the rest of the way up and rubs his hands through his hair, mussing it about. "You're impossible." 

Guy watches as James gets up and makes his way over to his dresser, rustling through the drawers. "Go ahead and cancel the car," James says, not bothering to turn away from his hunt. "I've got one of my own and can drive us, if you'd be so kind as to actually tell me where it is that we're going."

\--- 

James ducks his head down low, chin resting atop the steering wheel as he looks out the window. "This is positively palatial."

It isn't, but Guy has always loved compliments. 

And impressing James. 

And James, full-stop. 

"No," he says anyway, just to be polite. "This old thing? It's not even our main house, most summers. My mother's at that one now, and it felt too soon to be introducing the two of you." 

The look James gives him is hard to read. He opens the door and steps out of the car, so Guy follows him out onto the driveway. They look at one another over the hood. "I'm sure it had nothing to do with your aims to have me in every room of this place."

Guy's nose twitches beneath the rim of his sunglasses. "Oh, well," he says, "yes, I suppose that might've played a deciding factor as well."

The front door opens and their year-round minder steps out, making his way over to them. "Master Bennett," he calls, giving the both of them a wave. "So lovely to see you after so long a time!" When he reaches Guy they shake hands, Guy bestowing a warm smile on him. 

"Lovely to see you as well, Lewis." He points his chin over to James. "This is my work colleague, James Harcourt." The two exchange friendly nods and smiles. "We've got a work project that just doesn't seem to want to sort itself,” Guy continues, watching as James makes his way around to shake Lewis’s hand as well, “so I suggested we try the countryside. Fewer distractions."

Lewis nods. "I told the staff to clear out after they'd done their rounds to set up," he says. "The two of you shouldn't be interrupted. I'm heading out myself now."

Guy claps his hands together, shooting a conspirational smile to James. "Marvelous."

"Oh," Lewis gasps, his hand taking Guy's elbow. "It took me going two towns over, but I managed to find a tent for you as well, Master Bennett." 

Lewis has known Guy for the entirety of his life, which grants him some liberties. It's the only explanation for why Lewis turns to James and seems entirely comfortable saying, "Never knew this one to ever want to spend time outdoors when he didn’t have to, Mr. Harcourt. I suppose it must be your influence, but I thought my mind had finally gone when this one insisted I find a tent big enough for two men to share."

Guy can't bring himself to reprimand Lewis, especially not now that he's seen the look on James's face, completely dumbfounded and yet not any less gorgeous for it. Guy makes a promise to himself to shock James more often, if this is how he looks in reaction.

"I've evolved, Lewis," Guy says, grinning. "I think you'll find it'll be me convincing James here that time outdoors is exactly what we need."

With a laugh, Lewis bids them farewell and makes his way to his bicycle, propped up against the fence. He climbs onto it and takes off down the road towards his own home. The two of them wave at his retreating back, standing side by side shouting their farewells and thanks. 

It’s only once Lewis is too far for them to see any longer that James finally breaks the silence. "The rooms and _the_ grounds?" he asks. "You insatiable beast."

Guy loops his arm around James's waist and pulls him closer until they're standing hip to hip. "Well, yes," he says. "We had promised."

"I don't remember any such promise."

Guy presses a kiss to his cheek and then lets him go, making his way to the boot. "An agreed, mutual fascination, then." He gets the latch open and starts to pull out their bags. "Now stop being difficult and help me."

James does, managing to carry the both of their bags without any help at all from Guy, who trails after him and closes the door once they're in the house, leaning against it as he watches James deposit their bags off to the side of the entryway. 

"Whatever should we do first?" he asks. 

James levels him with a considering look before he makes his way to the door, gait slow but steady. He leans one of his shoulders against it once he’s arrived, leaving him perpendicular to Guy. "You truly are impossible," he says. "I'm of half a mind to thrash you, you know." 

Guy blinks. "I rather thought we'd save that sort of thing for later in the week, but by all means."

The sound of James's frustration is like music to his ears. 

"You know what?" James questions, though he doesn't give Guy any time to answer before he's speaking again. "The worst of it all is that I don't mind it. Worse, I find it charming, if you can believe it. I must be just as off as you are."

Guy can recall all the times in his life that he's ever been flustered. All of them have had to do with James. Not even the life-altering act of allying himself with the Soviets had brought about this jittery feeling of uncertainty that he has coursing through him now. 

It's a rare blush darkening his cheeks that has him looking down at his feet as he takes a moment to collect himself. "Better than the opposite, I suppose," Guy says at last. 

"Don't you get shy on me now," James says, his voice soft. Long fingers settle themselves on Guy's neck, and he can feel the air shift between them as James gets closer. Guy licks his lips.

"Quite right," he says. "Hallway it is, then?"

\---

He thinks of little else besides their little shared vacation for the next few weeks following it, the memory of it enough to keep him from getting too moody whilst James himself gets caught up in his work. Apparently they hadn't taken too kindly to James's taking a week off with only a day's notice, his beastly boss heaping as much work onto James as possible in recompense. 

Guy himself is on assignment in the south of Italy, for England this time, though of course the KGB has instructed him to report back on anything good he might discover while he’s there. Guy is meant to provide connections and play distraction while a field agent absconds away with a key piece of documentation. Things have been heating up as of late, the Queen’s service calling upon him much more frequently. These sorts of jobs are altogether easier when done in-country, quick things that allow him to return home for the night, where he can at least phone James after and hear his melodic voice before being forced to sleep in his cold, lonesome bed. 

Work abroad means that nobody's meant to know where Guy is, so ringing him is out of the question. As are postcards, though James still delights in them, so much so that Guy is sure to pick one up whenever he’s able to tell James that he’s been away, putting his feelings to paper and knowing that his will be the joy of watching James consume once he's returned home to deliver them personally. 

At least the evening’s host has good taste in champagne. Guy makes quick work of one glass and grabs a second off the tray of a passing waiter. Trouble is, he's too smart for the whole of the room — worse, they can never know it, Guy forced to act as if he’s on their level in order too best blend in. He flits from one conversation to the next, not saying anything at all beyond a few witty anecdotes that leave his latest audience laughing, ensuring that he's remembered as little more than an amusing blur of a face during an otherwise routine evening. 

It's just about enough to make his brain leak out from his ears. 

From the corner of his eye he catches sight of a shock of blond hair, bringing his thoughts back to James. He resolves to himself that he won't accept another week of their current situation; the first thing he's doing when he’s back in London is inviting himself over to James's, propriety be damned. He's good enough with locks now that he can slip in through the back door without any of James's overworked neighbours catching sight of him. 

Guy wanders around a bit more before heading outside to the veranda, looking to clear his head with a dose of air that isn’t quite so heavily perfumed. He's on his fifth flute of champagne and everything's started to go a bit fuzzy around the edges. Usually he wouldn't allow himself to indulge during work, but some of the shine of his life in espionage has started to wear the more it keeps him away from home now that he's got a reason to want to stay near. 

Which is to say, the more it keeps him from James. 

James, who's out on the balcony, smoking a cigarette and looking just as shocked to see Guy as Guy is to see him.

Guy stands up a little taller and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms, hoping to give the world some of its focus back. "Am I hallucinating?" he asks, not entirely sure what it'll mean if the apparition before him gives an answer. 

A spell of vertigo ascends over him, leaving him dizzy and on shaking legs. He drops a hand to grab hold to the railing, hoping to keep himself upright. Through the white bursts flicking across his vision, he can make out James rushing over to him. His grip is a steady, grounding thing on Guy's arm as the two of them work at keeping Guy on his feet. 

"Are you alright?" James asks, voice thick with worry. 

"What're you doing here?" He touches the tips of his fingers to James's cheek and feels a great sense of relief at the warmth he feels there, the solidness of it. 

"Business trip," James says, as if it's perfectly normal for him to show up at the home of a man Guy's helping to get information off of. "My boss has been trying to get in with Sorrentino for ages. I honestly think he would've fired me if I hadn't come along."

Guy gives a watery laugh, trying to make sense of it all. "Why _did_ he need you to come? I thought you'd said that you weren't sure he even knew you existed."

At this, James laughs as well. "Sorrentino's daughter likes blonds, apparently. I'm just decoration," he says, and he certainly looks man out of his depths, forced into a situation far out of his usual habitat. "Why do you think it is that I'm hiding out here?"

Even though it hasn't been tailored to him at all, the rented tuxedo they've stuffed James into suits him well, the dark black complimenting the beautiful coloring of his skin, the brightness of his eyes and hair. 

He loses himself in his admiration until James asks, "What about you? I thought you'd said work was boring all this week?"

Guy hates himself a little bit, for how quickly the lie comes to him, even though he's nearly fall-down drunk. "I know Voiello socially; Sorrentino and he go way back, apparently. I was a bit miserable without you and so when he extended the invitation I rather jumped at the excuse to keep myself busy." 

What he hates even more is how quickly and easily James accepts it, none the wiser and not the least bit suspicious. 

"Did you know," Guy continues, hoping to rid himself of this miserable guilt. "That just a few moments ago, I was fantasising about getting back to town and breaking into your flat so that I could jump you the moment you arrived home from work?"

"That certainly would've been a nice surprise." James ducks his head and turns to look out into the night. A hand comes up and shields the lower half of his face, hiding the smile that's broken out wide and gorgeous across his face. "Terrifying too, I'm sure, until I realised it was you and not some random vagabond." 

Guy takes a few deep breaths and begins to feel like he's finally starting to get his wits about him again. Though he knows it can't be true, logically, a part of him is sure that it's James's presence that gets him back on the level, that it’s the sight of his smile that brings the world into focus for Guy at last. 

"You could've just asked me for a key," James adds, "of course. And then you could come and go whenever you like. But yours is a bang-up idea as well, Guy."

"Harcourt!" A man's stuck his head out from the doors leading back inside. "Stop your chatting and get back here, you great bloody idiot. There's work to be done!" 

Under his breath, James mutters, "Duty calls," to Guy before turning back to the door. "Yes, sir!" he shouts back. He extends a hand to Guy, who dumbly takes it into his own, allowing James to give it a rather brisk and impersonal shake. "We'll finish this when we're both back at home, yes?" His voice is quiet enough that it shouldn't carry. Guy nods rather dumbly at that too. "Wonderful."

He watches James make his way back inside, disappearing beyond the glass and into the throngs of people still milling about even as the hour drags on deeper into the night. 

\---

It's only fair to give James a key to his own home. Guy surprises it on him, pulling it from his pocket after James cheekily doles out a copy of his key to bestow on Guy, as promised. 

"Oh," James says, suddenly flustered, all traces of self-satisfaction gone. "I couldn't. I look so out of place at yours, the neighbours would surely notice if I came sniffing ‘round when they knew you weren’t even home."

"Only enough that they'll find themselves jealous," Guy reassures him. "Everyone around there knows to keep their mouths shut lest their own affairs come to light. Really, James. It's fine, take it." He puts the key into James's pocket himself. 

They're inside James's kitchen, yet still James looks nervous, casting his eyes about the room as if he feared Sir Harold Scott himself might be lurking in the pantry. 

"What's the matter?" Guy asks, getting worried himself now. "Has anyone said something to you?"

James shakes his head, visibly coming back to himself. The smile he gives Guy is weak, a watered-down imitation of his usual, but it's still more than the worried look that'd been on his face a moment before. "No," he says. "No, nothing like that. I'm just being silly, I suppose. You know me."

Guy knows James to be brave, far braver than any of the men he's ever been infatuated with. It'd been what made him go after James at school. Getting to know him, sharing their dreams, James never failing to meet Guy halfway no matter how mad of a plan it was that Guy had hatched for them — all of it had been what made Guy fall in love all those years ago, the first time in his life. Taking a whipping had hardly been a punishment at all when the opposite would have meant leaving James to it in his stead. James has always had far more sense and discretion than Guy, of that there was no doubt, but the man was far from silly. 

"Hey." James has suddenly gotten much closer, and he taps his forehead against Guy's, rubbing their noses together. "What are you thinking about?"

“Well,” Guy doesn't have an exact answer for him, his thoughts a muddled mess of starts without much of a conclusion to round them out. "You," he says at last. "I suppose."

"I am right here, you know." James wraps his arms around Guy's shoulders and leans back to stare up at Guy's face. "And I love you."

"I love you too," Guy returns the phrase earnestly. It doesn't sound at all like the first time he's said it to James, even though of course it is. He hadn't had the chance to, back at school. 

He had told Tommy, though, and just about any of the boys that had been in close enough distance to hear his repeated declarations of it, even if they hadn't wanted to know such things. He's thought it to himself, over the years, and certainly more since James re-entered his life. He’s expressed it even recently, in the bi-monthly letters he writes to Tommy off in Spain, who is much more supportive of Guy’s pursuals than he’d been back when they were boys, although not so much as to suggest he ever particularly appreciates the three extra pages added to their correspondence, all of which details Guy’s obsession with James in terms that only just might save Guy from being arrested should the government ever think to molest his mail. 

The whole of it is that it's true, and it feels just as natural to speak it to James as it is to hear James say it to him. James must be of a similar conclusion, because his smile finally shifts into its usual lopsided perfection, lighting up the room as much as it does his face. 

"Everything'll be fine then," James says, and even though it's meant to be reassuring to Guy, it comes out like he's asking a question, seeking reassurance for himself. 

It's not the sort of thing Guy can promise, not with a relationship like theirs, and not with the sort of job Guy has. He'd give James the world though, wouldn't hesitate to move the very mountains themselves for him, so he says, "Everything will be fine," and means each word of it when he does. 

\---

There’s someone else in the room. It takes Guy entirely too long to realize this, but he's still breathing when he does, so the other agent must be about as good at his job as Guy is at his. 

A light turns on in the corner, and Guy gets the shock of his life when it’s James sitting in the chair under it. “I hadn’t wanted to believe it at first,” James is saying, “and then after a certain point I was just waiting for you to actually _tell_ me.”

Guy blinks. “What in the world is happening?” 

James’s face screws up into a complicated expression. “What is it? You think the Soviets actually care about men like us?”

It all snaps into place for Guy in that instant, the shock of seeing James in such an unexpected setting finally processed, the only logical conclusion finally reached and similarly accepted. 

All the vagueness of James’s work suddenly becomes painfully recontextualized. Guy hadn’t cared what it was that James did, in all honesty, as he knew that even without three various employers paying him, Guy's family has enough money to see that the both of them would live comfortably for the entirety of their lives. It certainly wasn’t like Guy worked for want of a living, after all. 

So he hadn’t cared to ask, too gleeful to have James in his life and likely too self-involved to realize that failing to do so was likely rude. Like any good agent, James hadn’t been of a mind to volunteer any such information anyway. 

Guy is suddenly very, very tired. “At least they’re good enough to entertain the bloody thought,” he says at last. “How’s your government doing?”

A frustrated noise bubbles out of James’s throat. “They’re your government too, if you’d be so kind as to recall your address. And your employer, at any rate. Just who are you here for tonight, anyway, if you don’t mind my asking?” 

“Ask me anything you like, you should know that I’ll tell you anything.” Guy stuffs one hand into his pocket and uses the other to tug at his hair. “It’s not about taking sides, you know. It’s not about making a stand. They’re awful, the both of them. All of them,” he stresses. “The’s the joke of it all, James. Don’t tell me you’re so deluded by patriotism that you can’t see the truth of that.”

James stands and takes a few steps towards Guy before seeming to think the better of it, freezing in the middle of the room. “Of course I bloody well know that,” he says through his teeth. “It doesn’t change that you’re playing with fire here, Guy.”

“Well so are they.” Guy sniffs, biting back what he’s embarrassingly coming to realize just might be tears. It’s been an age since he last cried, and he isn’t enthused about the idea of James being the one to see him break that particular drought. 

“We make wonderful spies, don’t we? Loveable, without families to tie us down, and damn well able to keep things a secret, leagues ahead of our married counterparts, that’s for sure,” Guy argues. “They love us, right until they can’t pretend any longer and then they lock us away as if we’ve somehow done something wrong and forced their hand. How can they expect loyalty when they can’t even pretend to extend it to us? If they want it both ways, why shouldn’t I?”

James doesn’t seem to have much to say to that, that gorgeous, lush bottom lip of his worried between his teeth in lieu of any answer.

Guy can’t take the silence. “So what does this mean, then? Your showing up here,” he clarifies. “Is this us finished? Is all of MI6 due to rush in and see me hung? Don’t be so cruel as to make me guess, I’d like to think I’m owed more than that.” 

A set of footsteps coming racing up the stairs, hitting the landing of the hallway hard. A pale-skinned man pokes his head into the door a moment later, breathing laboured. “I’d told you to wait,” he says to James. It takes him a moment to realize that Guy is even in the room. It appears to give him a shock when he does, the man fumbling for the gun tucked away behind his suit jacket in an instant. 

“Oh do rein it in, Guillam,” James calls. All his earlier torment is gone, looking so relaxed that Guy can’t help but wonder just which was the act, James with him or how he is towards the man now. “Bennett is one of us. Looks like MI6 was running their own operation and didn’t think to inform us in the lowly Box 500.”

The fight leaves Guillam just as quickly as it'd surged up in him; he bestows a rather meek smile on Guy for his trouble. “Sorry about that,” he says. “We’re supposed to be here netting a mole.”

“How exciting.” Guy doesn’t bother looking at him, only has eyes for James. “Sorry to disappoint. Though if it makes you feel any better, it would seem my assignment’s fallen through as well.”

“It does, actually,” Guillam admits with a smile. “Good to know that even SIS has their moments.”

Guy can only just manage to bring himself to return expression. “Quite,” he says.

“We ought to be going,” James cuts in. “Still got a report to type up, haven’t we? I don’t know about the two of you, but I’d like to actually get some sleep tonight.”

Anxiety rears itself up Guy's throat, and he has to work to swallow it down. He locks eyes with James, doing his best to read meaning from them and finding that he can't. It's mad, how quickly things can change. "I suppose I'll leave you boys to it, then," Guy says, giving James a nod. 

Something in James's eyes flickers for a moment, but it's only that in the end, a fleeting emotion that leaves as quickly as it'd emerged from whatever depths James so expertly buries himself within. He turns back to his partner, asking something that the ringing in Guy's ears keep him from hearing properly as he forces himself to turn and leave the room lest he does something that ruins James's life so expertly as he's seeming done to his own.

\---

London is an absolute misery when Guy returns to it, the sky an ugly shade of grey and seemingly intent on sinking the godforsaken island once and for all. His flat isn't much better, depressing and dark as he steps through the door, the air stale and heavy, osmosised from the outside and trapped there thanks to Guy having forgotten to crack any of the windows before he'd left. He'd told the maid to stop coming around a few weeks past, mindful of James with his key and not wanting to cause them any undue trouble.

It's enough to make him sigh dramatically to himself. It's been a long while since he last felt this level of such utter desolation; he'd thought himself past this now, yet here he stands, right back in the thick of it. Guy drops his overnight bag next to the door and makes a sad, lonely march into his sitting room. 

A light switches on; James is sat on his couch. 

Guy jumps so hard that his shoulder blade cracks into the moulding of the door, causing him to hiss out in pain. James surges up from the couch, making for him, but Guy waves him off. "You're really going to give me a heart attack after all if you keep this up," Guy says, reaching back over his shoulder to press against the bruise he can already feel blooming there. 

James stares at him with his hands hanging limp at his sides. His hair is a mess, going every which way and standing up on-end. He takes another step towards Guy but then seems to think the better of it. "I love you," he says it like it's the only thing he can think to say. 

Silence stretches between them and it takes Guy a moment to realize that James is waiting for him to reply. 

"Well I love you, obviously," he says, feeling stretched preternaturally thin. "That couldn't have ever been in question, James."

James rushes forward and embraces him, holding him tight. 

"If we're going to pull this off," James says, whispering the words where his lips are pressed next to Guy's ear, "I'm going to have to teach you a thing or two about discretion." 

\---

Zhenya shows Ms. Schofield out once everything's been said. Guy goes through the trouble of wheeling himself to the window overlooking the square; when she glances back at the house a final time before her car drives back out towards the main road, he waves. Zhenya turns to return inside once she’s well and truly gone. 

Standing is slow going, but Guy manages. He'd hidden his cane in the closet before she'd arrived, and once the well-worn knob of its handle is back in the palm of his hand he's able to navigate himself out of the room on his own legs easily enough. Ferreting the room for bugs is a young man’s game, one he'll leave for Zenhya to sort out once he's finished with the dishes. 

James pokes his head out of his own study, freed from his short stint of imprisonment now that their guest is gone. It wouldn't do for the Americans to know that he’s still alive; it’d been the soul condition of Guy’s own defection, after all. 

"Cricket?" James calls down the hallway. "Really?"

Guy crosses the distance to him in his own time and James dutifully rolls his desk chair out of the way, permitting him entrance. Guy isn't all that surprised that James had been listening in to his interview. It'd always been the case that he was better of the two of them when it came to actual spying. 

"Well," Guy says, sneaking a sip of James' tea and making a face once he's realized it's gone tepid. "You always did look so lovely in your kit."


End file.
